"Mom! Hey, mom!" I heard a cherub chirp from around the corner as I washed up the dinner dishes, wondering why *I* am washing the dishes when I have a house full of able-bodied children whom I could force to do it. "MOM!" The chirping turned to screeching when I didn't immediately reply. I turned off the water so I could hear the most urgent need of this darling fruit of my loins.

"Yes, precious muffin. What can I do for you? Please let me know." (Hey, it's my revisionist history. Shut up.)

"When are you going to put up the Christmas decorations?"

"I'll do it in between my manicure and leisurely lunch that I have planned tomorrow, as I have nothing better to do." (This is not true. I said something along the lines of probably over the weekend, if I have time at home at all between trips to drive "you kids" places, or between meals and cleaning up. I laid on the guilt so thick that said child slunk upstairs and wasn't heard from again until morning.)

What I really wanted to do was cry and/or shout, "Put up the d$#& decorations yourself!" What kind of woman/mother/homeowner am I? It was the third of December, and I had nary a twinkly light nor a Christmas village house adorning my home. The Christmas plates were still ensconced in their box in the garage. I hadn't even thought about a Christmas card. I'd been working 10 hour days for weeks and still felt behind, and I didn't WANT to put up the Christmas decorations, even though I knew I'd love it once it was done. I was exhausted, empty, and resentful, because let's face it - even though the cries of feminism and equality ring through the air and over social media on pages like Pantsuit Nation, the brunt of these things is borne by the woman of the house.

So this past Sunday, after guilt grabbed hold, I dragged in the boxes of yuletide cheer from the garage and began halfheartedly decking the halls. My children helped some, my husband carried heavy things; they all wandered off at some point, leaving me alone in the room to put the finishing touches on what now resembled a Christmas explosion.

As I set up the Christmas village, I was rendered immobile by a fit of nostalgia. Many of the houses in the village were my Nana's and then my mother's. Mom gave me the Dickens houses a year before she died, as I had coveted them for years. She said I could have them for that year, and she'd take them back the next. She didn't live to see another Christmas. I thought of the hands that had touched these houses; the places they'd lived. The boxes bore handwriting of women who'd decorated their homes before me. Familiar, warm, distinctive writing which exemplified Nana and Mom both. I thought of the care that had been taken to set out and pack away these precious family decorations, and tears pricked my eyes. I miss my mom. I miss my Nana.

I realized that my lack of motivation is tied up in the sense of loss that comes out the most at the holidays, not necessarily my work/housekeeping/driving kids around schedule. Family is everywhere this time of year. People doing things with their parents and loved ones. I have loved ones galore, but the loss of parents is acute and leaves one feeling decidedly lonely.

Once everything was set up and the happy lights of the tree and village cast a warm glow over the front room, I loved it, as I knew I would. I doubt the loneliness of the holidays and the wish for just one more Christmas with my mom will pass, but I can speak her story and handle her things, and hope to give the gift of love to my family this season.

There have been a lot of victories in the news lately, some shocking, some not so much. The first is the Cubs winning the World Series. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I don't really care about baseball. I played as a kid, but watching it makes me want to stab my own eyes out by the fourth inning just so I can stay awake. I am neither subtle nor nuanced, which apparently are two essential skills needed to love baseball. However, I love a good underdog story. The fact that they came back to win a series when they weren't favored to (curse or otherwise) made my heart sing. It was awesome watching my social media blow up with the joy and pure exhilaration of my die-hard baseball fan friends. Finally! Cubbies win! Woohoo! I found myself wishing I were as invested in something so fantastic. But I'm a nerd. Give me a book and a Bic, not a ball and bat.

Mere weeks later, Donald Trump stunned a nation by winning the presidential election. Even those who voted for him were in disbelief. After a moment of shocked silence, the hand-wringing and name-flinging began. Again, my social media blew up - but with no joy this time. Videos of violent protest, the calling for more "unfriending," the naming of any Trump supporter as a racist, xenophobic misogynist, and the gloating from the "winners" made me so upset I had to stop looking. I know people who voted for Clinton. I know people who voted for Trump. I know people who voted for a third-party candidate. I can tell you with certainty that none of them are horrible, Satan-loving, racists, socialists, sore losers, misogynist whatever-you-want-to-box-them-in-as people. They're frustrated and want voices heard. One side cries, "But we won the popular vote!" The other cries, "But that doesn't matter! The electoral college counts!" Our nation is divided and in an ugly way. I'd argue that no one really won.

Last night, the great Westfield Shamrocks (the school where I teach) won the Indiana Class 5A football championship for the first time ever in the history of Westfield schools. This win came after years of hard work, sweat, and tears. The coach reported that the boys practiced 331 days of the year, in addition to games and various community service events. This coach focuses on building the character of the boys, and I have to say that these boys are respectful, smart, focused, and disciplined because of the football program and the support they receive from their parents and coaches. As I watched them play, biting my nails at intervals of close calls in the game, I saw kids from every race, socioeconomic class, and size working together on the sidelines to help their team win. I saw the losing team shake their hands with grace and dignity. There was no name-calling, no mud-slinging. And I secretly was glad that these boys won so no one will feel like Uncle Rico in 20 years (If only we'd won state!). I realize a high school football game is nothing like a national election, but I think we can all take a lesson from these kids. Be gracious and humble in winning and losing. If you want something, work hard for it - be disciplined and respectful.

I don't know what the future holds in terms of politics. I hope the apocalypse-predictors are wrong and that we aren't in for a huge crash in the market or Hitler-like regime under our new president. I hope the election wasn't hacked by the Russians. I hope that people on both sides can see each other for more than the worst stereotype (Deplorables! Socialists! Criminals! Liars!) and work together. It does no good to wish for failure on the part of either side - we only hurt ourselves. I want to be like the Cubs and the Shamrocks and persevere se we all win, even against the odds.

Since I teach high school, I'm privy to all sorts of insane, dramatic fears that sweep through society, cause emotions to run high, and disappear just as quickly. I've survived the Zayn leaving One Direction madness, which caused millions of teenage girls to wail and gnash their teeth with abandon. More recently, the clown scare has gripped the daily existence of many. "Are they really killing teens?" my students ask, with dread in their usually hopeful eyes. I read stories of people keeping their kids home from school (not in my district, but in other places) because a clown may or may not have been sighted in the vicinity. I'm the first to admit that clowns are creepy AF (to steal a saying from the kids). They stare, they have too many teeth. However, on the bright side, they can be rounded up in a single police car! (ba dum bum)

I'm not afraid the clowns will kill us all, and in a way I'm enjoying the distraction from the real circus going on in our country. By this I mean the election. Just when I think it can't get worse, it does. Just when I think I can't dislike the candidates any more than I already do, I'm proven wrong. I'm not sure what it says about our country that out of hundreds of millions of people, these clownish ones are the only choices. Yes, I know there are others on the ballot, but let's get real. Only in my wildest fantasies will a third party candidate win this particular election, though I do hope the horror show unfolding before me will cause the implosion of the major parties and allow something new to rise from the ashes, not unlike a beautiful Phoenix.  The ugly division I see unfurling across social media and across tables of friends is frightening to me. Each side is so convinced they are right all civility has been thrown aside. Ugliness abounds as neither side seems capable of tolerance of the other side. Relationships are being destroyed. People are being unfriended over the posting of meaningless memes on Facebook. It makes me sad, like I'm living out Pagliacci (or at least Crazy Joe Devolo's version) every day. I'm petrified to share my own political leanings, because my friends are way more important to me than which ghastly candidate wins this joke of an election. Recently, I've realized my reticence is taken by some as a tacit (silent, sad clown-ish) endorsement of Trump. Or of Clinton. Depends on the crowd I'm with at the time. Why is it that if I don't wish to share what I'm thinking, people assume I disagree with them, and therefore must be a moron?

I love politics and have always met election seasons with glee bordering on psychotic. For the first time in my adult life, I'm face with two candidates I cannot conceive of voting for. So I mock them both equally, and try to listen to both sides, hoping that someone will say something that makes sense to me - not loaded words or rumor or hyperbole. I hope it happens soon, as election day is only a month away. The song that goes, "clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am, stuck in the middle with you..." runs through my head and pretty much sums up how I'm feeling these days and about this. I think most people are in the middle and feeling like no one in government represents them. It's time to send out the clowns and take back sanity.

While indulging my Facebook addiction this morning, I read many stories answering the "Where Were You?" question that appeared for the 15th year on this date. I don't even need to give backstory here - 9/11 is synonymous with death, destruction, terror, and profound sadness.

On this day in 2001, I was a new mom to a colicky baby girl and living in the Boston area. My darling was 4 months old, and I had just gotten her down for a morning nap after being up for what seemed like days of nonstop screaming. I dragged my weary body to the couch with my morning cup of very strong coffee/cream/sugar to watch some of the Today Show, my one treat each morning. Expecting to see Al Roker up to some hijinx, Katie Couric looking peppy and perky, and Anne Curry attempting some serious broadcast journalism, I was shocked to see live footage of one of the twin towers after a plane flew into it. Like the rest of the country, I was captivated; glued to my television set as the horror unfolded. "It was a mistake," I thought. "The plane just went off track." Then, the second tower was hit. Then, the Pentagon. Then, a plane went down in Pennsylvania. Then, the towers collapsed along with our national security. At one point, I went into the shower and just cried. What would be hit next? How many would die? Who would do this?

That afternoon, I met up with some other moms of babies at a local waterfront park. We discussed and analyzed the events and how we knew this was a turning point; that our babies would grow up in a completely different world. The day was beautiful - clear, blue skies and warm. But quiet. Oh, so quiet. We found out that the planes had mostly flown out of Boston, and everyone knew someone who was either on one of those planes-cum-weapons or victim related to someone we knew. The terror hit so close. Our babies did what babies do, unaware of the world around them. They ate grass, cried for food, rolled about, and touched each other with wonder and joy. They'd never know the world before. No subsequent person born would, either. For my children, taking off their shoes and being practically strip-searched in an airport is the norm. Terrorism is commonly spoken of. They are always a little afraid.

I'll never forget where I was physically that day, or mentally. I doubt I'll ever again in my life watch such tragedy unfold, the truth of what's happening slowly dawning and breaking through the denial. The whole world stopped, broke, and started again in a completely different way. The terrorists took something from us all that day, and denied everyone born after that day the chance for a life "before 9/11", when every plane trip didn't engender just a little hesitation. I'd like everyone to take a moment today, as if you aren't already, to think about how just a few hours changed everything. And how since then, not much has changed at all.

It's my birthday today. I'm 46 years old, and if my math is correct I am now closer to 60 than to 30. I find myself with many aches and pains and wobbles that have crept up on me, mostly from kicking myself for thinking I was old at 30 and from an unfortunate ligament-tearing incident at roller derby a couple of weeks ago. The boot prints of time show everywhere - in the age spots forming on my hands (but I'll never give up the sun, so they're here to stay), the stretch marks on my stomach and thighs (but I'll never regret having my babies, though I do regret some of the cake), and the lines on my face (but I'll never regret the laughter, or really even the tears, that put them there).

Neither of my parents lived to be 65 years old. If this genetic legacy continues through me, I have less than 2 decades to go.  Statistically, even if I live to the average age for a woman of 81 years, more than half my life is over. This is a staggering thought, because my mind still believes I am 24 and have all the time in the world to fulfill my dreams. I'm convinced this thought is the basis for midlife crisis and urgency to do more, be more, have more that I see every day. The only thing that may keep me alive into very old age is that "only the good die young."

I found a picture of myself the other day from the approximately 25 minutes in 1990 that I could be considered "hot." In that photo, my hair is thick, shiny, and hangs around my shoulders in perfect spiral curls. My cheekbones and collarbones are in evidence, and my smile is the careless smile of a young, pretty girl who takes her prettiness for granted. It's all been downhill from there. At 46, my body is a warning for what will happen if you aren't very, very careful. I worry, at 46, if I can ever reclaim a firm figure or a head of nice hair (which has gone from lovely spiral curls to fright wig in the blink of an eye).

The great upside to getting older is that I truly don't care if people don't like me. The things that made me weird as a kid make me quirky and fun now. And the urgency of knowing I don't have decades left on this earth helps me make much better decisions and prompts me to get things done. Which reminds me, I still have 10,000 words or so left on Cate Book Number Two, which I am sure you're all waiting with bated breath to get your hot little hands on (insert shameless promotion).

I'm going to enjoy today. It started off with a thunderstorm and rain, but I just burrowed under the covers and went back to sleep since it's Saturday. My sons and daughter and fabulous husband all remembered so I don't have to be like Samantha Baker in 16 Candles (though she did score Jake Ryan in the end). And I'll make the most of the fleeting years I have left. Mark my words.

I live in the heartland, where people grow corn, drink beer while sitting in lawn chairs on their driveways, and think it's a great idea to start school at the height of summer. I returned to teaching a mere 4 days ago. And I'm already tired. Yes, I know, many of you are scoffing at my assertion that a not-quite-nine-week summer vacation isn't nearly enough. "I work all year!" you cry. "I would love to get three weeks, let alone all that leisure time you teachers get!" To which I snidely and defensively retort, "Well, you could've been a teacher, you know. Then you'd know the joy of summer vacation well into your 40s, too!" To date, no one has come up with a witty rejoinder to that. They merely look off into the distance and snort a little.

But I digress. The almost nine weeks flew by in a blur! From driving kids hither, thither, and yon to attending a couple of journalism camps to learning an entire video editing software program in a few days through YouTube tutorials so I'd know more than the kids when I started teaching them mass media to retooling Junior English (okay, I did take a week vacation to Harbor Springs, MI, where I did nothing but loll about for 5 days), it didn't feel like much of a rest. Why is that? There were so many things I needed to do, like finish the new Cate book - never fear, Cate lovers. It's nearly done. Well, mostly sort of.

The last week before school started, I injured myself doing roller derby camp. Some young sprite hit me from behind, sending me sprawling forth, twisting my foot in a hideous pattern resulting in a sort of torn ligament which hurts like the dickens. I've hobbled around in a haze of Advil and low-grade pain ever since, my foot ensconced in an extra-large brace that is not quite as cool as Forrest Gump's leg things were. Some people have sympathy. Some do not. One woman tsked at me and said, "Honey, why are you trying to be an athlete? You're a writer." I'd had a profound internal struggle before going to the practice over whether I should set up my classroom or go to derby. I ignored the responsible voice and laced up my skates instead. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

For some reason, I'm lamenting the loss of that last week the most. A procrastinator by nature, I left errands, pool visits, another go on the paddleboard, and about 15,000 words of a novel to that one week, and the ankle injury really threw a loop into my plans. They say you regret the things you don't do, but I regret that day because it ruined the last week of summer vacation, a magical time suspended before reality sets in.

So I'm trying to focus on the positives. We did get new English books this year, and they smell heavenly and, so far, have no male genitalia drawn in the margins of Dickenson poems. I have a hectic schedule - yearbook, journalism, English, and mass media - but I am NEVER bored. The people in my department are the funniest people on the planet and make me laugh until I tinkle a little bit every day at lunch. They clucked sympathetically at my ridiculous injury, and didn't mock me (at least to my face).

I'm mourning the end of summer, the very best time of year with the very best weather (heat and drought, my faves). But I know another one is only 176 school days away.

Just in time for the Fourth of July! As you ponder freedom and independence today, please remember our furry friends who need help. I contributed a short story to this anthology, Nine Loves, brought to you by my publisher Rebel Ink Press. Please consider purchasing one today! Here's more about the recipient of the proceeds and why we put this project into motion:

Imagine finding a box containing a battered baby animal on your doorstep. Now imagine this innocent being bleeding from his wounds, barely clinging to life. Unfortunately, these incidents are all too real for the people working in animal shelters across the United States. Stories of animals being abused and neglected by the very people they’ve learned to trust for their care have become far too common. One such story, that of a kitten dyed purple and used as a bait dog chew toy, reminds us of such evils. Yet it also helps turn our attention to the selfless groups of people standing in the gap to protect these precious lives. While following the progress of the purple kitten (aptly dubbed Smurf), ten Rebel authors decided to put words to the page to support The Nine Lives Foundation, a no-kill shelter for cats and kittens, whatever their need. While Smurf has found a new human to adore him and a forever home, countless other animals aren’t nearly as fortunate. With that in mind, Rebel Ink Press is proud to present our 2016 Charity project, Nine Loves, a collection of short stories featuring underdogs, second chances, and hope against all odds type tales. A donation in Smurf’s honor will be made to The Nine Lives Foundation from all copies sold and we thank you in advance for your purchase! Simply click on the link below to be magically transported to the version of your choice!

PAPERBACK VERSION

KINDLE VERSION

This short story is my first foray into "farm fiction." It was chosen to be sold at FarmCon in Indianapolis, and will prove a nice break from my pithy life observations. I had only 600 words, which is hard for a chatty girl like me. I hope you enjoy!

Flower Girl
 
            Wade’s heart couldn’t take the anticipation of Serena’s arrival every Saturday at the Fairport farmer’s market. Always a few minutes late, she’d tumble into her stall, blooms from the bouquets she sold drifting down to form a trail in her wake. Every few seconds, Wade found a reason to look up from his own goods – berries bursting with juice, tomatoes heavy and ripe, honey thick and sweet – to scan the growing crowd for her. Rearranging the flawless display again, he stole a furtive glance toward the riverfront where she always parked her tiny Fiat. How could so many flowers fit in a Fiat? It was one of the many questions he practiced asking her, should he ever get the nerve to speak to her.
            And there she was. Dressed, as usual, in a simple dress adorned with tiny blue cornflowers, she made her way through the crowd, those petals floating wordlessly to the ground. A mass of honey hair, the same color as the honey he gathered and sold, moved around her head as though a separate entity from her body. Wade thought only pure sorcery made that hair appear to always move like ripples in the river that bordered Fairport. She nodded and winked a violet eye at him as she passed, a smile playing around the corners of her raspberry lips, just like she had every Saturday for the past 6 weeks. Wade gave a half-smile that made a dimple pop out of his tanned cheek, and a two-finger salute. This was the most communication they’d had, and Wade thought he’d die of pure joy. The current of that moment was the high water mark of his week. He wondered what it would be like to bury his face in that hair. He imagined it smelled of all that he loved about being a farmer. The earth, the sweet berries, the wildflowers.
            Once she passed, Wade got down to the business of selling his goodies. He took pride in telling customers how his berries always won prizes at the state fair and how he rescued the honey bees from the eaves of homes in the suburbs where they took up residence against the will of owners who didn’t understand that honey bees don’t sting. People were surprised to learn that bees were crucial to the fragile ecosystems of the earth, and Wade was always glad to save a hive. He loved beekeeping almost as much as he loved the taste of a sun-warmed, fat strawberry fresh off the stem
            During the slow times, he watched Serena create unique flower groupings – sunflowers with peonies and daylilies – that brought forth gasps of delight from her customers, who were captivated by the flowers as much as Wade was by the girl. Her tip jar was always overflowing with crumpled bills, and she rarely had anything left to shove into the Fiat at the end of the morning.
            There was an energy in the air that day, Wade thought. He felt it as he looked up and saw Serena standing in front of him.
            “May I try some of that honey?” she asked, her voice musical.
            “Sure,” Wade said, proffering a jar.
            She dipped two fingers into the jar, and placed them, dripping with honey, between her parted lips. She closed her eyes in ecstasy as she licked the fingers clean. One small drop fell and landed at the top of the swell of her breasts. Wade nearly fainted. He wanted to watch her savor honey all day.
            “So,” he said. “How do you fit all those flowers in that tiny car?”
            “Come with me and I’ll show you,” she said, with another wink of her violet eye.
           
           
           

When I was 26, I started reading the outstanding Harry Potter series. At that time, I had smooth skin, shiny blonde hair, and a twinkle in my eye. People noticed me. I once was told I got a job because I was "pretty and wholesome," which is probably illegal, but since it served me well I didn't say anything. All through that series, I became fascinated by the invisibility cloak. How wonderful it would be to have one of those! To be able to skulk around, undetected, and eavesdrop, people-watch, and learn secrets. I spent an unhealthy amount of time wishing I could be invisible and undetected.

Fast-forward about 20 years. My wish has come true. I'm the Mighty Invisible Woman. The only shine in my hair comes from a bottle and serendipitous stumbles into good lighting. My skin and body have been ravaged by childbirth, sun worship, and too many Oreo Thins (which I believe will be the downfall of society). A hysterectomy and ovary removal took away any semblance of normal hormonal balance. When I go places, I am like Saran Wrap. A little stretched, a little warped, and completely see-through. I amble through crowds and my eyes meet no one's. I listen and make hilarious comments in my head about what I hear. It's simultaneously wonderful and sad.

In order to combat this, I exercise (mainly Orangetheory, which you MUST try if you are near one), I'm trying to get on a roller derby team under the name Zelda Hitzgerald (another must try - roller derby is a great way to work out aggression), and I write books with young and fun characters who will be frozen in their young and fun states. I try my best every day to do something Mighty, something new, and something unexpected, even though no one notices.

This invisibility is a hard pill to swallow by a self-admitted attention whore. But it also has its perks. I'm at an age where I no longer care if people think I dress weird, because I know they're looking right through me to the hot girl over there and don't notice anyway. I can browse, unbothered, in department stores. Creepy men don't make lewd comments on the street. I overhear some pretty shocking and enlightening things that make for great material when sharing anecdotes at parties.

But it also reminds me that I'm on the downward slope of life, which doesn't seem possible. In my mind, I'm still that 26-year-old. My aches and pains and curmudgeonly ways (these kids today!) seem to belong to a completely different person. "Look at me!" I want to shout to the younger girls. "You will be me one day, like it or not!" But let's face it. They wouldn't listen. To them, I am a mom. A lady they think they'll never be. Someone to look through and look past. I am ridiculous to think I am a Mighty Invisible Woman; I am just invisible. Just beware what you say, though, because I'm lurking there, listening, like Harry under his cloak.

I live in the Midwest. My neighborhood was literally a cornfield not so many years ago. I'm supposed to be excited because there is a pond (man-made retention pond, that is) in my neighborhood. I grew up just a few miles from where I live now, in another community rising out of the corn. I am a child of the sea who, by accident, was raised as a child of the corn. I sometimes hear the name "Malachi" whispered in the wind.

For more than a decade of my life, though, I lived in a bucolic New England hamlet just minutes from the beach. The real beach. The ocean beach. I loved going there and enjoying the restorative healing and calm that can only come from hearing power pound on the sand and smelling salt in the air. I spent many an hour pondering life as sand squished through my toes and drew comfort from the proximity of it. I swore I'd never leave.

Life, though, is unpredictable, so I now find myself again landlocked in a foreign place. I feel this most acutely in the summer, when my pores are parched and long for some salt water and expanse of beauty. It's where I live, but it doesn't feel like my home. People who live by the sea are my tribe. There is something about them I can't put into words. They are often salty (pun intended) and brutally honest and fierce in their loyalty and seem almost to be living incarnations of the ocean. Though I grew up here in this dry and landlocked place, I was born by the sea (Newport, RI) and it's in my blood.

This is not to say that the Midwest is a terrible place (people here are very sensitive to the stereotypes of living in a "flyover state", which often aren't true at all, and loyal in their own way to the Hoosier state) or that the people here are not worthy. I love many people of the corn, but I feel kismet with the people of the sea.

There is a heaviness in my heart as I slather sunscreen on to go lie by a pool which tries so hard to be a beach, with fake palm tress and "wave runner" machines. "We have lakes and reservoirs!" my friends exclaim. Yes, I think, but it's not the same. There isn't wild, reckless beauty at a lake or a reservoir. "You're a snob," they sometimes say. Perhaps I am, just a little bit. I'm trying to fit in here, but my toes and hands and face ache to submerge in the frigid water of the northeast, or in the warm and less intense waters of southern California. I want to strap on some SCUBA gear again and enjoy the peace of the depths where the only noise is the bubbles of my own breath rising and escaping into the air. I long to be around other ocean people who understand me and who hold the water dear.

I've gone back to visit a handful of times, and my lungs expand more the closer I get to "home." My stress leaves, and my body rejoices. When I leave, my tears are the closest I know I'll be to salt water for some time. I was married for the second time on a beach, surrounded by my sea-friends, and it was a truly magical day. I tell myself it's where I will live again before I die. I have to believe it.

In the meantime, I'll scroll through the scores of pictures I have of those years, close my eyes, and remember. And I'll make the best of my time here, landlocked though it may be. And maybe I'll learn to love a lake as much.